


another long night

by SoloByChoice



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Gen, Guilt, Missing Scene, Season/Series 04, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7945801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoloByChoice/pseuds/SoloByChoice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garibaldi doesn’t know how to apologize to Sheridan because he’s not sure how much of this is his fault. Franklin is very sure. Lyta’s getting a headache. I’m being flippant but listen, Garibaldi is a mess. He’s not having a good time. A missing scene or four.</p>
            </blockquote>





	another long night

It was something like three in the morning, local time, when they returned from their rescue mission. Franklin ushered a barely conscious Sheridan into one of the few actual rooms in the Martian underground base, which the resistance used as an impromptu medical bay. Lyta agreed to play nurse with less than her usual complaints and had gone to wash her hands while Franklin told Garibaldi that it was probably a good idea that he make himself scarce until they were done with whatever might need doing to stabilize Sheridan.

So, because he didn’t really have anywhere else to go, Garibaldi sat on the ground outside and thought about what he was going to say to Sheridan once he woke up. He was having a hard time coming up with something that might work. How could he apologize for anything when he wasn’t sure how much was his fault?

_“Hey, Captain” – oh come on – “Captain, I’m” – no, wait, he’s not really my captain anymore – “Sir” – no – “Sheridan” – too formal? “John” too familiar? What the hell am I supposed to – ok. Leave it._

_“I’m sorry I used your dad to catch—to get – to trap you. I’m sorry I used your dad against you. I’m sorry I used the fact you still trusted me for some reason.” No, come on. “I’m sorry I used the fact we were friends to get you to trust me when I didn’t deserve it.” And whose fault was that?_

He could remember everything that had happened, from the Shadow ship blocking out the window of his Starfury to the train and Lise begging him to help expose her husband’s plans. A lot of it was boring, every day stuff. And a lot of it wasn’t.

It was like remembering some sort of terrible waking nightmare. What the hell are you doing?? He wanted to yell at himself. Why would you do that? But the problem was that he knew why. Sort of.

Why did he quit his job? Because he’d never wanted to lead an army and he was tired. Maybe. Never mind that he’d actually liked being security chief and never mind that he liked his co-workers and that for the first time in a long time everything was working out for him.

Why was he so mad at Sheridan? Because of Lorien, at least partly. Because everyone kept asking if he was all right and yet there was Sheridan with some weird alien following him around and no one seemed worried about his mental stability. Sheridan who literally claimed to have been _dead_ , which was _insane, obviously_.

Or maybe it was all because he was more angry, paranoid, and distrusting of authority than usual. All great, positive character traits he already had, so the telepaths hadn’t had to do much to get him to abandon his friends or turn them in to be tortured.

How in hell was he supposed to apologize for any of that?

_I’m sorry my messy collection of issues made it so easy for Psi Corps to do this._

The worst part was that Bester’s plan hadn’t had anything to do with Sheridan. That was just a nice bonus.

He remembered agreeing to it and planning the best way to capture Sheridan. And being successful.

He’d done a lot of stupid things in his life while not in full control of his faculties, but this one took the cake.

God, he was so tired, but the words wouldn’t stop chasing each other around the inside of his head like rats in a trap, and the painkillers Stephen had given him earlier were wearing off so his back was killing him and he kept unconsciously chewing on his lip until he remembered, painfully, that it was split only to forget again five minutes later...

And he still didn’t know what to say to Sheridan.

_Okay, okay. Try again. He’s going to wake up at some point and you can’t avoid him forever, so you have to know what you’re going to say, okay?_

But every time he tried to compose something that didn’t sound completely terrible, his mind would unhelpfully supply a voice to the imaginary Sheridan, tearing his arguments, apologies, and confessions to shreds.

_“So you helped save me, big deal. Do you know what they did to me in there?”_

_“I don’t want to hear your excuses!”_

_“If you hadn’t been so easy to manipulate, none of this would have happened.”_

_“Bester picked you because you hate each other. Maybe you should think next time before making an enemy of someone like that.”_

_“You should have stopped them, when they grabbed me. You should have stopped Bester. You should have known something was wrong!”_

_“I don’t care why you did it – it’s still your fault!”_

“Hey, can you relax or something, please? You’re leaking all over the place and it’s giving me a headache.” Lyta was standing over him all of a sudden, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

“Hey, get out of my head!” Garibaldi snapped, standing up and moving away from her.

Lyta looked annoyed and tired. “I’m not _in_ your head. It’s not my fault you’re broadcasting that stuff for everybody with half a Psi rating to pick up!”

“Well, it’s not my fault either! You know, I think if I ever meet a polite telepath, I’ll probably die of shock.”

He wasn’t sure why the idea of Lyta hearing his thoughts bothered him so much. She’d already been in his head and seen the whole mess. And Bester had too... and who knew who else at Psi Corps. _It’s my mind – it’s nobody else’s god damned business!_

Lyta blinked and Garibaldi immediately worried that she’d picked that up too. Then he wondered whether he was being paranoid. He decided to sit down again.

After a minute or so during which Garibaldi tried to think quietly and Lyta slowly paced the breadth of the hall, she sighed and sat down opposite him. It was a narrow enough hallway that they both had to sit with their knees bent.

“I’m sorry,” said Lyta. “I could really use some sleep... or a pot of coffee. I’m shielding better now. I can’t hear you anymore.”

“Yeah... I’m sorry, too. I didn’t really thank you for earlier, so, you know, thank you. For believing me.”

She smiled a brief, wry smile. “I know what the Corps is capable of better than the underground does. I was one of them once, after all.”

He had nothing to say to that, so they lapsed back into silence. Garibaldi chewed on his lip some more, ignoring the way it stung. _Ask her. “Is he okay?” No, of course he’s not. “Is—How is he?” There. Ask her. “How is he? How is he?” Ask her already._

“How is he?”

Lyta’s dark eyes flicked between his face and the door, then settled on his face again. She had looked worried since she left the room, but now her features softened, deliberately, Garibaldi realized, like she didn’t want to scare him. The thought annoyed him, like Zack asking if he was all right all those months ago, like he was fragile or something.

“Stephen thinks he’ll be all right.”

Garibaldi snorted. “Uh huh. They had him for over a week, Lyta, don’t treat me like an idiot. Yeah, given enough time – but how is he, now? What did they do to him in there?” He didn’t want to know, but he had to know.

“Well, they didn’t pull out his fingernails, but I doubt whatever they did do was pleasant.” Franklin shut the door quietly behind him. He looked as tired as Garibaldi felt, but he didn’t join the other two on the floor.

“So? How is he? Why is getting answers from either of you harder than pulling teeth? Quit looking at me like that- I’m fine, okay, I’m not the one who just spent a week getting tortured!” Garibaldi glared at Franklin. “And I’m not going to drop it until you tell me.”

Franklin sighed. “Does the concept of medical confidentiality mean anything to you?”

“No.”

Lyta huffed an almost laugh.

“Alright, fine,” said Franklin. “If it’ll shut you up. Physically, it doesn’t look like they treated him too badly. Some cracked ribs, bruising, and I doubt he’s been getting regular meals or a normal amount of sleep. All the same, it won’t take him too long to heal. Psychologically, I don’t know. You saw what he did to that guard. The most effective methods of torture don’t always leave a mark. That’s all you’re getting from me. Anything else, ask him yourself.”

 _“Ask him yourself.” Ha, as if._ Garibaldi knew he ought to be, if not happy, at least reassured by Franklin’s answer. Sheridan would be all right. Physically. Still... _“Psychologically, I don’t know.”_ The phrase kept echoing in his mind. He knew how hard it was to come back from a betrayal. He didn’t like to imagine Sheridan feeling the way he had after Jack, second guessing his ability to read people, his ability to do his job, whether there was any point, really, to sticking around...

 _Sheridan’s made of stronger stuff than you,_ he reminded himself. _He died, didn’t he? And came back more determined than ever. He doesn’t break under pressure._ Still. _“Psychologically, I don’t know.”_ The image of Sheridan unloading that PPG clip into the guard played through Garibaldi’s mind.

“Hey.” Franklin was leaning down over him all of a sudden, and Garibaldi was too tired to hide the way Franklin’s voice made him start. Lyta was – gone, actually. How long had he been spacing out?

“She went to get some sleep, something I would also really enjoy doing, so get up and let me have a look at your back first.”

His legs had started falling asleep from sitting on the floor for so long, so Franklin had to help him up. “C’mon, doc, put your back into it!”

“You’re getting old, Michael.”

“Yeah? And since when do you have gray hair?”

Franklin snorted. “You really want to get into _hair_ with me? You?”

“Yeah, no, you’re right, I don’t.” Garibaldi laughed.

As they entered the medical bay, he sobered immediately, but forced himself not to show it. Sheridan was lying on one of the uncomfortable-looking beds, fast asleep, with an IV attached to his right hand. He looked haggard, but uninjured. Or maybe they’d just been careful not to damage his face.

Garibaldi tried to keep the mood light while Franklin redid some of his stitches, calling the doctor a sadist and accusing him of enjoying poking the various bruises Garibaldi had gotten courtesy of the resistance, but it was tiring so he lapsed into silence after a few minutes.

When Franklin was done, he said that Garibaldi could spend the night here because it wasn’t like the resistance had a lot of free beds, then gave him back the purloined uniform shirt. It had blood on it, but not as much as the shirt he’d been stabbed in and the clothes he’d worn the week before were filthy. And also he had no idea where they were.

“Do you know what happened to my clothes?”

“No idea,” Franklin answered absently. He sat down in the chair next to the bed while Garibaldi finished buttoning the shirt.

“It’s just that I don’t want to wear this uniform that long. I’m not even in Earth Force anymore, and, you know, the blood. Doesn’t look great.”

“Michael, we need to talk.”

“What, I’m sorry I called your hair gray, move on.”

“Ha ha,” said Franklin. “I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to work.”

 _Fantastic._ Franklin looked exhausted, but his gaze was clear. Garibaldi leaned down to pull off his shoes rather than look at him. He was pretty sure he knew what Franklin wanted to talk about. _Maybe if I lay down and play dead, he’ll go away_.

“First of all, I want to apologize.”

That was surprising. Garibaldi narrowed his eyes at the doctor. “What for?”

“When you told us about what Bester did, I didn’t believe you.”

Garibaldi wasn’t sure how to respond to that. On the one hand, it had been such a wild story he didn’t think he would have believed it if it hadn’t happened to him, not without material proof. On the other hand, sitting there surrounded by people who wanted to kill him, and knowing that he had no proof of what had happened but his word, had been one of the worst moments of his life so far.

If his life hadn’t literally been on the line, he wouldn’t have asked Lyta to scan him. It was an extremely unpleasant experience, to put it mildly. But he’d needed to save Sheridan and in order to do that he had to be alive...

Franklin was talking again. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, and I’m sorry you had to get Lyta to scan you for proof.  And –“

“Would you have shot me, if Lyta hadn’t been there?”

“What? No!”

Garibaldi shook his head. “Then skip it. It’s not your fault.”

Franklin looked at him earnestly. “It’s not your fault either, you know.”

 _Oh great, this._ “No, I don’t know that.”

Franklin frowned. “Well, I do.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Because I know you. I know you’d never agree to the Psi Corps – how did you put it – dry cleaning your brain. It’s just that you can’t think clearly about it—“

“Oh, I’m not _thinking clearly_ about it? Oh well okay because obviously you know what’s going on in my head better than I do! Seems like everyone does these days, join the party. And there’s plenty of people who’d tell you Michael Garibaldi wouldn’t know _thinking clearly_ if it bit him on the ass!”

He had stood up at some point and was shouting. He saw Franklin send an anxious look towards Sheridan, but the captain was still sound asleep. Which was just as well because Garibaldi was having trouble controlling the volume of his voice, apparently. _Shut up!_

“You don’t know what Bester said they did, okay. They would never have picked you, or Ivanova, or anybody else – it had to be me because – because I’m obsessive and paranoid and I don’t trust people and so that made it easy. And apparently because no one questions it when I’m acting odd.

“And I know why I did everything I did, Stephen, no one was controlling me. It’s my fault I gave up the best job I had in years, my fault I ruined all my friendships, abandoned you all to fight Clarke without my help – it’s my fault John Sheridan was captured and tortured. None of that was even part of Bester’s plan, it just _happened_. And _it’s my fault_.”

Garibaldi sat down abruptly, panting. The room was silent. He hadn’t meant to say any of that, it had just come boiling out of him, and now he was going to have to deal with Franklin’s reaction. _God, I need a drink_.

Franklin was frowning at the floor, deep in thought. Despite the fact that Garibaldi firmly believed everything that he had said, the idea that Franklin might not argue with him and instead just agree and hate him for what he’d done, made him want to throw up. Or cry. _Why not both? Half the damn resistance saw you shit yourself, it’s not like you’ve got much dignity left._

He lay down on the bed, stared up at the ceiling, and tried not to think.

At last Franklin spoke. “I’m still your friend, Michael. You didn’t ruin that. I did notice something was off about you, but I didn’t do anything. I guess I thought you just wanted to be left alone and we ought to respect that. If I understand this whole thing, I think even if I’d pressed the matter it wouldn’t have helped.  Well, never mind my excuses. I’m sorry about that too.

“As for the rest of it... I don’t know the details, but honestly I don’t have to. What I do know is this: you didn’t do any of the things you feel so guilty about. Psi Corps abducted you, forcibly invaded your mind in order to enact some seriously delicate rewiring of your personality, and then used you to achieve their ends, regardless of any consequences on the side. They didn’t exactly make you into a puppet, but it was still someone else in the driver’s seat. So you’ll forgive me if –“

He cut himself off, but Garibaldi wasn’t listening anymore because not throwing up was apparently no longer an option. Luckily the sink wasn’t far away. When he was done, Franklin handed him a towel, looking guilty.

“I’m... not being very helpful, am I?”

“No, not really. Thanks for trying. I don’t think you can fix this one in five minutes, doc.” He tried to smile.

Franklin sighed. “I know and I’m not trying to, just... I’ll say one more thing and then leave you alone, okay? We’re both running on way too little sleep to really talk about this.”

Garibaldi shrugged and went to sit down on the bed again. The idea of actually speaking was exhausting all of a sudden.

“Regardless of whether you blame yourself or not, I don’t. It wasn’t your fault. And I want you to know, Michael, that I am fully prepared to remind you of that, every day, for as long as it takes for you to believe it.”

At which point Garibaldi ran out of whatever last bit of energy was keeping him together and started sobbing into his towel. He was too miserable to even be embarrassed.

Franklin said something, then turned the light down and left.

A sudden clattering noise jolted Garibaldi out of sleep. He had no idea when he’d calmed down enough to fall asleep or how long he’d then slept, but he felt better. Well, his back hurt because he’d been lying in an odd position, but mentally he was on solid ground again. For now.

He turned toward the noise and saw that Sheridan was awake, righting the metal thing his IV bag was hanging from and looking a lot healthier than he had earlier. For a moment, Garibaldi considered pretending to still be asleep, but then dismissed the idea. He was going to have to deal with Sheridan eventually, and some pessimistic part of him thought it might be a good idea to do so when the man was still partly incapacitated. So he sat up.

“Oh, sorry, did I wake you up? I didn’t realize I was attached to this IV and accidently knocked it over.” Sheridan looked slightly sheepish. “I also have no idea what day it is.”

Garibaldi told him and Sheridan grimaced. “I didn’t realize it had been that long... but I also wasn’t sure it hadn’t been longer... They don’t let you keep track of the days. Classic disorientation technique.”

Having reoriented the IV line, Sheridan sat down on his bed again.  “What’s been happening out there, Michael? I assume Susan took command of the fleet, and obviously Stephen and Lyta are here on Mars preparing for their part in the plan... I need to get up to speed with current events and get back out there as soon as possible.”

“You’ll have to ask Stephen. I know less than you do.”

“Right, you wouldn’t have known about the two of them coming here. How did you know to contact the resistance?”

The conversation was so casual that it was making Garibaldi uncomfortable. _Did he forget what happened? Does he somehow... know what really happened? Are we just not talking about this?? Is this some sort of trap? Maybe he thinks I turned him in and kept it a secret?_

Anyway it didn’t seem like he’d be going back to sleep too soon, so he got up to wash his face at the sink. And then washed the sink itself because it was still dirty from earlier. It hadn’t been the first time he’d thrown up in the last week either. Hopefully he was going to stop doing that soon.

Wait, right, he had a question to answer. “I didn’t know, really. The station wouldn’t take my calls and I figured if I wandered around enough, the resistance would pick me up. For once I got lucky, Lyta stopped them from shooting me, and we found you.”

“Shooting you?”

 _Did he seriously forget?_ Garibaldi was baffled. “Yeah, shooting me. You know I got you captured by Clarke’s people, right? Everyone knows. It was on the news. And the resistance likes you because you promised to back Martian independence, plus “telepaths made me do it” isn’t a great defense especially when you’ve got no proof.”

Sheridan seemed suspiciously unsurprised by the last bit.

“Did Franklin tell you?” Of all people Sheridan had the right to know, but Garibaldi found the idea still bothered him. He wished he could wrap the whole experience up, somehow, and hide it from prying eyes. It was private.

Sheridan coughed. “Well, sort of. The truth is I woke up, earlier, when you two were talking.”

“So you heard –“

“Everything, after you started yelling.”

“Ah.” And here came the embarrassment he hadn’t felt earlier. _Fantastic. Well, at least he’s not my boss anymore._

 _All right, let’s do this._ Garibaldi sat back down on his bed, facing Sheridan. “I know what happened wasn’t.... uh, that is, I’m having trouble figuring out who to blame. But I do want to apologize.”

Sheridan squinted at him. “But what Franklin said, that means it wasn’t your fault.”

“Okay, I don’t want to talk about that. Just let me finish, yeah? I lured you into that bar, slapped that tranq on you, and let them take you away.”

“But—“

“Let me finish! It doesn’t matter whose fault it was or whatever, what matters is, how can I put this... I couldn’t figure out what to say earlier, I don’t have this all worked out... What matters is you thought it was me. For over a week. And I know we were having problems before that, but I doubt you thought I was capable of doing something like that to you.

“From your perspective, I betrayed you. I stabbed you right in the back. And I know what that’s like, so I’m really sorry it happened and if you have trouble trusting me now, I get it.”

“This whole experience is going to make a lot of things difficult, I’m sure,” said Sheridan. “And I know _exactly_ who to blame.”

 _Wish it were that easy._ “I’m sorry anyway. You know, in general. This never should have happened to you.”

“Then I’m sorry too. None of that should have happened to you, either.”

Sheridan’s energy seemed to be running out. He lay back down with a grimace, careful to position his hand so he wouldn’t pull on the IV line again. Garibaldi lay down too and looked up at the dark ceiling. Sheridan didn’t blame him for any of this mess. That made it harder for him to blame himself.

He’d wanted to take the blame, he realized, because otherwise he’d have to admit, well.... everything else. Franklin’s clinical, blunt description of what had happened to him was fucking horrifying enough without having to consider that there was nothing he could have done to prevent it in the first place.

Hell, he was a cop and agnostic and he knew perfectly well that sometimes, shit didn’t happen for a reason, it just happened, and then you had to deal with it. So deal with it he would. He’d help kick Clarke’s ass, find out what had happened to Lise, and then maybe he’d go looking for Bester. The little creep wouldn’t feel so in control with a gun to his head.

“It’s not going to be easy,” said Sheridan. He sounded half-asleep. “But like somebody once said: We’ve survived a lot of things, and we’ll probably survive this.”

 _I like that. We have, and we will._ Garibaldi swore to himself he’d do whatever was necessary to make sure Sheridan got through this. He owed him that much. And maybe he owed himself, too. He’d survived plenty before now. He wasn’t about to let Bester or Carke or anyone else have the satisfaction of seeing him lose.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> (note: Sheridan’s quote is a paraphrase of J. D. Salinger: “I’ve survived a lot of things, and I’ll probably survive this.”)


End file.
